Voices
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: America can't remember anything these days. He feels like he should, but he doesn't, and he hates himself for it. After awhile, he starts to hear voices. He tries to get rid of them. TW: Mention of shootings, self harm, starvation, and suicide. Please keep yourself safe. Oneshot.


As soon as America entered the room for the World Meeting, all eyes were on him. Usually he enjoyed the attention, but not today. **They're all jealous**_, _his mind snickered. But it was hard to feel that way when everyone glared at him with such obvious hatred— or maybe it was sympathy? America wouldn't know the difference anymore— burning in their eyes. Still, the thought came back. **They're all jealous. No one can ever do what you've done. Or at least, not easily. **

As soon as America entered the room, everyone had gone dead silent.

Their gazes made him feel sick. His stomach twisted uneasily. "E-England, where's the bathroom?" America asked. He'd do anything to escape their gazes for the time being.

"It's down the hallway. Make it quick, the meeting officially starts in five minutes." England replied, hardly bothering to look at him.

America could practically hear them whispering behind his back, even though he was out of the room and halfway down the hall. "Ha! What losers. They c-couldn't possibly accomplish everything I did," he mumbled to himself. "Yeah. They're just jealous. That's it."

America looked into the mirror, trembling slightly. He splashed water on his face.

"They all must hate me," America whispered to himself. He could feel the tears welling up again. He knew he should be upset, but he didn't know why. What had happened yesterday? What about the day before that? And before that? And yes, of course he remembered 9/11 and the Columbine shooting and the Cold War, but what else had happened?

He felt like there was something he should remember. But he didn't. He didn't know what was happening. It mustn't have been anything important then, he figured.

But still, he felt like he was dying. Surely something important had happened, then? He sank to the ground. His heartbeat was loud in his ears. Why couldn't he remember? Something just the other day had hurt terribly. What was it?

England entered the bathroom. "America, it's been ten minutes!" He shouted. America winced. "Are you alright?"

**They won't help you. No one will.**

**They can't help you**_._

"Uh-huh," America said quietly. He tried to catch his breath, but he found himself unable. He was exhausted, absolutely and utterly.

England knelt down next to him. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure," America snapped. He wanted to be left alone.

"Well, come along then," England said awkwardly. "You're five minutes late." England helped him up and then grabbed America's elbow and guided him to the Meeting room.

He was about to open the door, and then he paused. He grabbed America's elbow again and took him to another room. This room was darker. It had a couch in it. "Here. You sit here. I think you should rest. You look very tired."

"What? But—,"

"I can give you notes, America," England said. "What's going on in your country?"

"I want to go to the World Meeting, too!"

England sighed. "All right, all right. Let's go, then."

England passed Germany and whispered something to him. Germany nodded, glancing uneasily at America and pulling out a paper, as if he had expected this to happen. He looked up and said, "We're going to go about things a bit differently today." And it was, well, different.

Germany called out names instead of having people raise their hands to share. "Belarus." "Belgium." "Britain." "China." "Finland." "France." Germany presented. "Greece." "Estonia." "Italy." "Japan." "Latvia." "Lithuania." "Poland." "Russia." "Spain." "Sweden." "Switzerland."

"America."

"No way, man! Why'd I have to go last?" America complained half-heartedly.

"America, I know damn well I raised you at least well enough for you to have the mental capacity for the alphabet. 'United States of America'," England said.

"Ah. Okay."

"Your report?" Germany asked.

"Nothing's happening!"

"Are you sure?" Germany prompted.

"Uh-huh!"

"Okay. If you say so. Meeting dismissed."

(Linebreak.) 

England approached America. America was still sitting at the Meeting place, zoned out. "Hey, America. Do you want to go eat?"

"Sure!" America said, and they went.

"Where do you want to go? I'll pay."

America thought for a moment, and then offered to drive.

They went to a McDonald's. England would rather have not went, but he didn't dare complain.

Everyone was worried about America. After the most recent shooting (which had been an astonishing twelve hours before the meeting) they figured he would be a bit shocked.

America seemed fine, though, at least until he had to use the bathroom and had been gone ten minutes. England had went to get him and found America on the floor, out of breath, which was extremely concerning.

And that was all they knew.

England was ready to shell out a shit ton of money over America's preferred 37 hamburgers and ten boxes of chicken nuggets, but America only ordered one hamburger. England reluctantly ordered a yogurt parfait. America seemed happy enough.

And when they were done, America quickly paid for it before England could.

"America, what are these bruises on your wrist from?" England asked, grabbing firmly onto America's arm. America's sleeve had slid down a little bit when he'd paid.

"Oh," America said, looking down. "I don't know."

England thought he was lying.

(Linebreak.)

America went home. He felt much better after the meal, but he still couldn't remember what he'd forgotten.

He rolled up his sleeve, staring at the bruises. He hesitantly touched his fingers to each one. Where had he gotten these? He couldn't remember that either.

(Linebreak.)

Over time, America had more and more injuries that he couldn't explain. He himself didn't even know where he was getting them. He just remembered... well, nothing. He remembered nothing.

All of the other nations seemed very much concerned for him, but America didn't know why. They pitied him, and it made him feel even worse.

And so, America found himself in the bathroom again.

He stood up, swaying slightly. He felt kind of faint, but he made his way to the meeting room, just as England was about to get him.

He sat down. They presented in alphabetical order again, and America tried to pay attention. Really, he did. But he found his mind drifting to what he'd forgotten, which was now not one thing but over thirty little things that had caused him immense pain.

He wasn't self harming, so he didn't know where they were coming from. He couldn't remember getting them, either. He rolled up his sleeve, hiding it underneath the table and staring. Where had he gotten all these tiny cuts?

"America."

America didn't respond.

"America?"

Japan poked his arm. America looked up, looking around.

"America, were you paying attention to any of that?" Germany asked.

"Y-Yes, of course."

"What did Switzerland just say?"

"I-I don't know." Why didn't he remember any of the Meeting? For God's sake, he was still at the meeting!

_**Fucking useless. **_

_**It doesn't matter. None of them matter anyway**. _

"What about your presentation?" Germany asked, biting back a sharp retort. Everyone had to try to be nice to America, but it was hard when he wasn't paying attention.

"Nothing is going on."

An irritated sigh made its way around the room. Everyone stood up at once and left, leaving America alone.

(Linebreak.)

Another World Meeting. America was paying attention at first. He stared at his wrist, astonished to find another injury.

_Blood. _

America watched as a drop of blood squeezed its way out of the wound. _How did this happen?_

Blood felt weird when it trickled down your arm.

_Blood. A glint of light bounced into his eyes just as—_

"America! Dozing off again?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I was... I was trying to remember something."

"And did you?" England asked curiously.

"No."

England scoffed. The meeting continued.

(Linebreak.)

Late that night, America woke up. He didn't even know he'd fallen asleep, but he was in pain. There was a new cut on his arm, still bleeding. _Where the hell am I getting these? _

He wrapped his arm in a bandage.

The next day, he put up security cameras in his house.

And the next time he blacked out, he watched the security footage.

He watched, horrified, as he hurt himself badly with a knife, and then proceeded to wash it off. Why didn't he remember? What was wrong with him?

(Linebreak.)

Life became a nightmare after that. It was no longer something to be curious and stressed about; it was something he had to hide from the others. He was hurting himself. The others wouldn't like to know that. He never took off his jacket in the company of others anymore. He stopped making plans. Life was horrible, and he needed to be alone.

America didn't understand how this was happening. He tried to stop it, tried to fight himself every single time he felt like he was slipping away. He never succeeded. He was so weak.

America hated himself for it. He'd never felt so divided, not even just before the Civil War. What was wrong with him? Why had this happened? This wasn't normal, and yet he couldn't do anything to stop it.

(Linebreak.)

Years passed like days to nations, and the years went by all too quickly. As they went, America found himself blacking out more and more often. More and more cuts littered his body. And America was unable to stop.

And then he had an idea. It was absolutely brilliant, really.

If he couldn't stop himself, he would do something else entirely. He would starve. He would starve himself until that horrifying, demonic part of him finally left him alone.

That seemed like it would work.

If America's life was a nightmare before, it was absolutely unbearable now. He didn't even miss eating; he was too disgusted with himself. But he still couldn't remember much of anything that happened in his country, and now, after so many years, the other nations were just annoyed with him. America didn't even present anymore; he never had anything to say.

He never remembered what the other nations said, either. He was slipping away from them, and they were pushing him away gladly. And that was fine. _After all, _America reminded himself sadly, _I have company. _

America was exhausted. He could hardly force himself out of bed these days, and even worse, the cuts just accumulated until the amount was uncountable.

And still, they continued.

America just wanted all of it to end. And finally, one day, he was so fed up that he decided that, yes, he would make plans.

"England! Bro! You wanna stay with me?" America called him one day.

"America, I can't."

"Please," America said. Starvation wasn't working. He wouldn't give it up just yet, but maybe if there was another nation with him this thing would leave him alone. America desperately craved to be alone like that. He didn't ever feel alone these days. Now, he could feel the other part of him constantly. It constantly breathed over his shoulder, constantly whispered horrible things to him, and it took over completely every once in awhile.

"Fine. I'll come over in a week."

(Linebreak.)

America waited impatiently for England's arrival. The whole time, his _friend_, his _companion_, whispered: _**He doesn't care. He won't help you. No one can. You're stuck with me**. _

America winced. England's knock came loud and clear, and instantly, his other part disappeared. He almost felt empty.

America and England sat in silence at the dinner table. America stood up and started cutting an apple into slices.

He stopped. He was starting to feel faint.

_Oh god. It's happening again. Fuck. _

The knife hovered dangerously above America's hand. America was away, somewhere far away now.

The knife cut his hand. Fresh blood seeped out of the wound.

America fell to the ground. England stood. "America? What's wrong?"

"Oh... I'm just... cut my hand." America stifled a whimper. The wound hurt like a bitch. He almost started crying.

_**Isn't it always going to be like this? Isn't this so fun, America?**_

_No, this isn't fun. This isn't fun at all. I hate you. _

England bandaged his hand for him. And then, finally, England said, "America, for the past few years I've been meaning to talk to you."

"Okay."

England took a deep breath. "America, you can't just say that the shootings in your country are no big deal."

America sucked in a breath. Now he finally remembered. Shootings. How horrible.

_**This is all your fault. I'm your fault.**_

"And damn it, America. Why don't you care about your citizens? I don't understand. How could you possibly just not _care _about them? They're dying and you—you never do anything, do you?" England was crying now.

_**You don't care, do you? You don't mind being hurt. You like me. Admit it. **_

"Why are you upset?" America asked softly.

England stared at him. "I talked about it at the last World Meeting, but you don't pay attention. It'd be understandable if you were caught up with your own news, but you don't care about that either!" England's voice broke. "I don't understand, America. We're both going through similar things, but you— you're perfectly fine. It's not fair. You forget all about the shootings. It's like you don't even feel them."

England stood up and left. "Sod off. I'll just fly home, then, if you don't even intend to say anything."

America sat there. Shootings. That was what he had forgotten. So many of them that they all blended together.

He didn't remember any of them at all.

How could he have forgotten something so important?

America was almost upset that England had left, but his companion quickly said: **_Whatever. He's just upset that we're the best country in the world._**

America stared at the apple. _**Try to starve me. You hate me so much, but darling, you're hurting yourself**. _

(Linebreak.)

America found himself helpless against his captor. He didn't get to decide what happened anymore. He was unaware most of the time.

He hated it. He couldn't show up to Meetings anymore for fear of being taken over. He couldn't call anyone or do anything, really.

Finally, finally, America found one day of peace. Just one.

It was not the shootings that drove him to suicide. It was the lack of them.

America kneeled in his room, sobbing bitterly. It would all be over. He'd finally get away from his friend, his playmate. He wondered what he'd done to deserve all of this.

He didn't want it to end. He wanted to say goodbye to everybody, but there was no time.

Everyone hated him anyway. He hadn't talked to any of them in years.

This was the perfect way to go. "Starvation didn't work," he said to himself. "But I'll... I'll take you down with me."

He held the handgun, frowning at it. All of the lost memories, everything he'd forgotten. Everything blended together. He remembered it, and headlines floated by. Everything that he'd kept from himself. Finally, he was caught up. _Finally, _he thought bitterly, _I have something to present at the World Meeting. _

_**It's time, asshole**, _the voice said. _**You even got it ready for me, didn't you?**_

This was horrible, America thought. He wouldn't even get to kill himself.

He was gone again.

America raised the gun. It was almost at his head when the door downstairs slammed open. Startled, he pulled the trigger. It fired into the wall.

"America? America!" Someone called out. America slumped, exhausted. He took a deep breath.

And suddenly someone was upstairs with him. He looked, only to find England standing at the doorway.

"America?"

America looked away and reached for the gun again. England struck him. The gun clattered to the ground. It was silent.

"America? Why would you do something like this?"

"I want this all to be over, England. I don't want any of this to continue." Tears welled up in America's eyes. He was finally free, at least for the moment. The other part of him was nowhere to be found. So why did he feel so helpless? "He keeps hurting me, England. I-I just wanted him to stop. I hate him."

Why did he feel so empty?

America stood and leaned into England. England hugged him tightly. He didn't know what was wrong with America. Frankly, America sounded insane.

America cried in his arms for a long time, trembling. Finally, America grew exhausted.

"I'm sorry, America."

"Make it stop. I just want it to stop."

"America, I think you need help."

"Make it stop!" America repeated. His voice rose to a wail. "England, he keeps hurting me! Make him stop! Please. Please help me."

"I'm sorry."

America kept on crying. England just held him, unsure of what to do. .

_**They all envy you. They're jealous. They don't want me to be with you because they know that I'm good for you. **__**They can't help you because you're not in danger. You're stuck with me forever.**_

America's crying rose in volume again. He picked up the gun and pressed it into England's hand. "Shoot me," he commanded. "Please. It's all I want."

England set the gun down, away from America. "No, America," he said quietly. "I can't do that."

England rubbed America's back. Finally, finally, America was gone again. But this time, he was overcome by sleep.

America's companion was right, in the end. None of the other nations could help him.

_England is jealous. They're all jealous because you're the strongest, most successful country in the world. _And this time, it was America's voice.

**A/N: It just occurred to me that I write quite a few stories about shootings. I keep thinking of different ways to portray it, but honestly, I think this is the most accurate one I've written so far. A review would be well appreciated. Please tell me what you think. **


End file.
